The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2)

by Rosamund Winchester

  Elric had heard of them; their skill in battle, their bloody rampages against formidable enemies. They were purported to be dedicated and deadly.

  “I see,” Elric finally intoned, readjusting the helmet under his arm. “I will tell the men.”

  Calleaux nodded, his gaze losing some of the edge it had held when Elric arrived. “I expect you to welcome them as if you were welcoming the bishop, himself.”

  Bowing, Elric made to leave the study, eager to quit the room. He was not so eager to share the news of the loss of their home and their new “brothers” with the men.

  Bear will need to be drunk for this, and Glenn… Hell, Glenn would sharpen his blade on Elric’s neck.

  “Expect them within the fortnight,” Calleaux announced, then turned back to the papers on his escritoire. Having effectively dismissed Elric, Calleaux didn’t bother looking up when Elric walked toward the door.

  “God dammit!” Angus “Bear” Andrews roared, his gigantic body vibrating with anger, his face crimson behind his bushy red beard. “Who are these wagging jollies coming to water down the order?”

  Elric sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew they would be like this, he’d just hoped for the best.

  Leaning back against the wall of the great room at the Balliwich Inn in Keswick, Elric watched as the agitated men paced, punched walls, slammed their tankards down on the already wobbly tables, and sneered at him.

  “Come on, lads, it is not as bad as all that,” he called, trying desperately to survive the debacle. “And it is not as though we have a choice in the matter. As the cardinal demands, so it is.” Rubbing at his forehead, he waited for the first wave of discontent to settle before he continued.

  “How do you think I feel, listening to the cardinal slander us as he commanded us from our home?” he asked, angrily, his chest burning from his unspent violence. As his men had done, he wanted to pound his fist into the table, punch a hole into the wall, which he’d have to repair as Balliwich watched on with frustrated grumbling, and shout his displeasure into the ceiling. More than anyone, he knew what taking on two green men would require. Hadn’t Tristin taken him on when he was still a wet-behind-the-ears maid plunderer, who cared only for wine and orgasms and naught for swinging a sword? Within two days of knowing Tristin, Elric had become a new man, a better man, a man who would one day lead the very men he’d give his life to protect. And now, it was his turn to be “Tristin” to the knights Bishop Norton sent.

  “Ye’ve gone and done it now,” Glenn Fraser drawled as he stepped from behind Elric, like a wraith in broad daylight. If he weren’t already used to the man’s ability to be there without being there, Elric might have placed a fist in his face. Firmly.

  “I have done naught but deliver the cardinal’s orders,” he intoned, hating himself for even having to speak the word “orders”. If disappointing his own father and getting himself ousted from his own family home proved anything, it was that he wasn’t meant to take orders, or give them. But even his past wasn’t enough to dissuade him from taking the path he was on now.

  Erich, a man of few words, though not as tight-lipped as Pierre, pushed to his feet, his face as red as a beet. “How could you agree with such a preposterous order? You would allow us to go without a home, without a safe haven? Could you not have argued for us as a true commander would have done?” He spat. “And you agreed with his obvious attempt to plant spies and saboteurs in our midst? Do you not care that these men will not be our brothers, but rather interlopers within our order? What sort of leader stomachs such an offense?”

  Erich’s angry diatribe landed a number of painful blows to his chest.

  “You think I wish to leave the only home I have known for the last three years? Do you not think I had to fight back the urge to strangle Calleaux with my bare hands? The man is vindictive, seeking revenge against us for standing with Tristin.” He flexed his fists, his hands aching from holding them so tightly. “Even if it meant I lost my life instead of my home, I would do it all again.” Tristin deserved more than Elric could ever offer, and he’d be damned if he allowed Calleaux to sour their victory over him with petty orders and vengeful actions.

  “We are better men than this,” Elric said, his voice hard.

  Guilty silence followed his words, and Elric looked to see that the other men had clamped their mouths shut against further argument. Erich was still beet-faced, but he had ducked his head, hiding his expression from Elric’s gaze.

  Glenn released a grumbling curse, the sound penetrating the tension in the room. “Erich, ye do a great dishonor ta our commander, and ta me as well, by insinuatin’ that he doesna stand fer us. Aye, the man is no Tristin, but he has done naught ta deserve such ugly words from a man whose life he has saved on three occasions.” Erich had the decency to look Elric in the eyes, his dark eyes flashing with a moment of shame.

  Glenn turned to Elric, his set down of Erich having done its work. “I can tell by the look o’ disgust on yer face that ye would rather pluck out yer eyes than kiss Calleaux’s ring,” Glenn commented, his striking blue eyes peering into Elric’s. Damn, but the man had the ability to see more than anyone; it was an asset in an assassin. Not so much in a situation like this, when Elric was feeling out of his element and trying desperately not to show his men how overwhelmed he was.

  “That is almost exactly what Calleaux said, damn you!” Elric muttered, moving to the nearest table to grab a tankard of ale. He had no stomach for the warm brew, but he needed something to do with his hands.

  Glenn chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Despite yer obvious nerves, I will admit that ye will make a good leader, a man I will follow—and these louts will do the same.”

  Elric snorted, staring down into the amber brew.

  “Tis true. They are angry now, but it isna at ye.”

  “He is right,” Bear interjected, coming to stand beside Elric, his wide, towering frame casting a shadow over Elric and Glenn. “We know that Tristin would not have given you his blessing if he did not believe you were worthy of the duty.”

  “Ayes” and grunts of agreement filled the air.

  “See, there now,” Glenn said, grinning. “Looks like tis time ta take yer rightful place, Sir Elric.”

  Elric peered out at the group of men now gathered around him, unfettered confidence and trust in their gazes. And as pride and the fire of brotherhood burned in his chest, he lifted the tankard into the air.

  “By the blood of The Cross, by the hand of God’s chosen, we will defend the Holy Church.”

  God have mercy on us.

  Chapter Three

  Cieldon Manse Stables

  Inner Bailey

  1419 A.D.

  The hem of Minnette’s borrowed brown tunic snagged on a rusty nail protruding from the stable door. With a huff to blow an errant black curl from her face, she bent to pull the loose threads from the nail so she could continue. Once free, she stepped into the dim interior of the inner bailey stable. The first thing she noticed was the smell; horse flesh, manure, hay. It was a riotous stench that both reminded her of her stable in Locronan and made her want to cover her face in disgust.

  Enid, you should be appreciative of the errands I run for you.

  “Hello,” she called into the large space, and when no one answered, she ventured further in. There were six stalls, all along the left wall. The right wall was bedecked with hooks holding harnesses and tack, and equally spaced lanterns, though none were lit during this time of the day. A sawhorse holding a saddle that looked in the midst of repair was nearly hidden behind a shoulder-high stack of feed bags. The rats skittering about near the bags made her cringe, but she was never one to completely recoil from a critter, no matter how revolting.

  “Hello,” she called again, and again no one answered. Heaving a sigh, she wondered what Enid would say if she returned to the kitchens with a full basket of tarts. She’d wonder if she’d entrusted too great a task on one such
as her. One who didn’t belong in the kitchens. Or in England.

  Suddenly annoyed at the stable boys and her uncle for sending her scurrying to the kitchens in the first place, she kicked her hem with a bare toe. If her uncle hadn’t sent word that he wished to speak with her, she wouldn’t have disguised herself in her maid’s clothes and run from her chambers in search of a place to hide. The kitchens were the furthest from her uncle’s chambers, and so that’s where she went. At first, she hadn’t really wanted to help, but once she saw how flustered yet patient Enid was, she couldn’t help but feel a warmth toward the woman.

  It had been a week since she’d arrived in England, and she still couldn’t get used to the manners of the household; much more stiff and cold than she was used to. In Locronan, she spoke with and even played with the staff. Often, she’d aid in simple chores if her maman hadn’t already filled her day with lessons and luncheons and other such boring nonsense. She’d hoped that life wouldn’t change too much once living in her uncle’s home. But her request to help the cook had been met with shocked expressions and narrowed, wary gazes. It took some doing to convince Enid that she really did want to help, but once the wide-hipped woman finally realized she wasn’t a threat, she spared no time sending her out to deliver tarts to the stable boys.

  Apparently, Twila, the cook’s assistant, insisted on sending the boys treats, though she hadn’t said why.

  Minnette’s short walk from the kitchens to the stable was eye-opening, to say the least. The people were all dour-faced, except for the children, who’d managed to keep a bit of their spirit despite the heavy cloak of solemnity that hung over the castle. Perhaps she’d find those children and give them the tarts.

  Smiling to herself, she tucked the basket under her arm and lifted her hems to keep them clear of the filthy stable floor.

  A chirping-mewling noise drew her attention. She gasped, then held in that breath, hoping the sound would repeat. It did.

  Placing the covered basket on a hay bale, she listened for the noise—chirp, purr, chirp, mew, mew. She followed the sound to the very back stall of the stable. Pulling open the high stall door, she peered into the shadowy recesses. And there, in the back corner, in a dirty pile of hay, was a litter of liver-spotted kittens.

  “Oh!” she cried, rushing in to kneel beside them. “Que d’adorables petits chatons! Où est votre mère?” The little darlings were all alone, no mother in sight. She picked up the closest one and snuggled it into her chest, marveling at how small and soft it was. “What a dear you are,” she said in French, murmuring into the fur of its head. “I will find your mama, and I will get you some cream.” She petted the kitten, smiling at its friskiness; clawing and batting at her fingers. She giggled. “You are a fighter! I think I shall call you Rapier, because your tiny claws are sharp and quick.” When it mewled then swatted at her chin, she giggled again then put him down, only to pick up another two to snuggle.

  For as long as she could remember, she’d been enamored with most all things furry, fuzzy, warm, cuddly, and feisty, much to the bane of her maman, who couldn’t understand her own daughter’s obsession with animals. And she most certainly did not appreciate her daughter bringing “creatures” into their home.

  She could clearly remember her maman’s near apoplectic fit when finding a ferret in her armoire, rabidly defending the honor of her maman’s fur-lined cloak. At the memory, she giggled again, but the joviality was soon replaced with the sharp pangs of sadness. She missed her mother. It hurt to think her mother didn’t miss her. Her mother had actually sent her away to live with an uncle she’d only met once, when he had come to the maison to meet with her papa.

  “You worry for nothing, Pet,” her mother said, reaching out a dainty hand to pat Minnette’s shoulder. “Your papa wouldn’t have trusted your uncle if he were not worthy of that trust.”

  “But Maman, I do not know him. What will I do in his fortress in the middle of nothing? Surely, I can stay here. I will not get in your way, I swear it,” she implored her pouting mama.

  Lady Allionetta stared down at her daughter with a mix of displeasure and pity on her unlined face. “No. You cannot stay here. I am to be remarried. And Lord Baragon wants his own young daughters and sons to live here.”

  That stung more than any nettle could.

  “But what of me, Maman? Do I not matter to you anymore?” Her tone, while high-pitched, at least did not sound pathetic. “I am your daughter, why must you send me off to live with Uncle Remi?”

  Her mother snapped up straight, her eyes narrowing to slits of blue ire.

  “At twenty and two, you are old enough to enter society outside of France. If I had not coddled you after your father died ten years ago, you would already be married and surrounded by babies. But, I have failed your father, and I have failed you. No more, Minnette. Your uncle has graciously agreed to introduce you to eligible English lords.”

  Frustration rose into her chest, threatening to overflow her senses.

  “Marry me off to the first man with enough money, you mean,” Minnette remarked, acidulously.

  Maman tsked, turning her elegant nose, and looking down at her daughter through her golden lashes. Even in her anger, her mother was a beauty.

  “What would you have me do, Minnette? We are not at the luxury to remain as we are. Your papa, God rest his soul, willed most of his fortune to the Church, leaving us with barely enough to live on. How were we expected to maintain our lifestyle, our home, and provide you with a dowry when the Church has all that we should have had? Our living arrangement is thinning to tatters. Your papa’s money has dwindled to nearly nothing, and Lord Baragon is willing to overlook our lack of income, if only he does not have to pay your dowry.”

  And no matter how many times she’d broached the subject with Maman, the woman would not be swayed. Even to stay with her only daughter. And so, she boarded the ship in Calais, crossed the North Sea to Scarborough, and was escorted to her uncle’s home by a severe-looking man in a black cassock. Even now, ten days after arriving in Cieldon, an invisible hand reached out and slapped her face, making her ears ring with the force of her bitter betrayal. She’d been dropped into her uncle’s lap, a penniless waif, at his mercy and in his debt.

  As if sensing her distress, one of the kittens began kneading her chest, the babe’s claws snagging in the dark brown bodice. Nuzzling the precious little face, she smiled. And when the little scamp began swatting at one of the curls bouncing near her face, she giggled. Lying back on the pile of hay, not caring if it were clean or vermin-ridden, she placed the kittens on her belly and teased them with lengths of straw. Again, laughter bubbled up, replacing the sadness that had stolen into her heart for a moment. She murmured happy words at the kittens, who didn’t seem to care she was speaking in French.

  “Well, that is not what I was expecting,” a deep voice rumbled from the stall door, “but I do not mind one bit.”

  Stiffening, Minnette looked up and up and up over thick, leather-clad thighs, to a bronzed torso wrapped in taut, hard muscle, to a broad chest smattered with auburn hair, and finally to a face that stole the breath from her body. Square jaw, full lips cocked into a wicked grin, straight nose, and golden eyes glittering with mirth and something dark and hot.

  The man before her was a stunning vision of bold masculinity—both beautiful and chiseled, like a statue crafted from marble.

  “Please, do not let me stop you,” the man drawled, his voice like honey over a sweet cake. “I have always been partial to fine felines.” At his arched eyebrow and the twitch of his lips, she knew he meant something entirely different than what he said. At that thought, her belly did a funny little flip, and she hated that her own body would respond to such blatant, despicable flirtation.

  Sitting up, she slowly turned and deposited the kittens back with their litter, conscious of the fact that a complete stranger—no matter how handsome—was staring at her. It wasn’t as though she’d never been the focus of a man’s amor
ous attentions. It was that this one was a little more interesting than the others. For one, this man was much better looking than the local baron’s rat-faced sons. And for two, his manner—the very strength thrumming from his large, taut frame—was engulfing. Even though she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel him looking at her, watching her, taking stock of her, like a man inspecting a horse with the intent to breed it.

  It bristled. As the only daughter of a duc, she’d had her fair share of heirs and widowers plying her with compliments. Most of those compliments were droll or asinine, and some were absurd. And some were downright disgusting.

  But this man…he was none of those things.

  And he knows it.

  She drew herself to her full height, which meant she could just brush her head against the bottom of the top of the stall wall. Pulling her shoulders back, she stiffened and finally turned to face the man who had effectively ruined a hard-won moment of peace and happiness.

  She clenched her hands at her sides and tipped her face up to him. His lopsided smile was still in place, but the humor in his eyes had disappeared. His eyes were burnished gold, flashing fire.

  Hold your wits!

  He’d spoken to her in French, and so she responded in kind. “Please, do not let me interrupt you if you need to muck out this stall,” she said, archly. Dressed as he was in leather trousers and filthy boots, he could only be the stable master. And his shoulder-length auburn hair slid over naked, broad shoulders, roped with muscles, which only dragged her attention to his wide chest, and then down to his trim waist and hard, taut belly lined with ridges and valleys.

  He knew she was staring. He flexed his chest muscles, drawing her eyes.

  Catching herself ogling the man, she snapped her eyes back up to his face. He flexed his chest again, then winked—the dog! His smile turned wicked in an instant.

  “Oh, you have not interrupted anything other than my ability to think,” he said, taking a step into the suddenly stifling confines of the stall. Against her own will, she took a step back, her bare foot landing in something she very much hoped was wet hay. Undaunted by her retreat, the man took another step closer and she held her ground, despite the urge to skitter out of his reach. And where would she go, anyway? He was blocking the only way out.